


Cocoon of Comfort

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Christine will keep him safe, Cuddling, F/M, Fluff, Nightmares, Sleepy Cuddles, cuddle!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-07 08:07:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5449427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, when he has nightmares, she is there and she'll look after him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

He trembles against her, body wracked with shivers, eyes clenched tight. Soft, keening noises break in his throat, each breath a choked gasp. And there is nothing she can say that can ease him, nothing she can do except lie here with him wrapped tight in her arms, and silently pray for the pain to pass.

The candlelight is soft on his skin, sharpening the angles of his face, crevasses thrown into relief. His jaw is clenched so tight that when he wakes he’ll complain about it aching, and she’ll say nothing about how close he was to screaming. He doesn’t like to upset her, so even though her heart is breaking having to watch him suffer like this she won’t tell him how hurts her. He has such trouble sleeping, it would be cruel to wake him now and besides, this is one of his lesser nightmares, she can tell.

She’s seen him far worse.

Her hand is light on his back, rubbing smooth circles as if he were a child in need of comfort. He may be a long way from a child, but there’s no doubt in her mind that he needs _someone_ to look after him, to be here for him. Of course he does.

Gently, she adjusts her arms around him, pulling him closer, his head tucked under her chin. Her poor Erik. What dreadful things live in his head, and she can do nothing about them when they make it their business to hurt him. If she could keep him safe, just like this, she’d hold him every moment of every day and never let go. Just hold him close, and promise him that he’ll be all right. Is it so much to ask for, a little peace in his head? Just once?

His breath hitches and stutters, long fingers bruising the skin of her hips where he’s been holding on so tight, as if he’s afraid she’ll simply melt out of his grip. And he would have been right, once, but she’s here now and she’s not going to leave him, not like this. Not when he needs her.

She smooths back his thinning dark hair, kissing the grey at his temples. He swallows, some of the tension bleeding out of his body. The nightmare is passing, and soon he’ll be gifted with easy sleep again. She feels it coming, remembers from so many other similar nights where she woke to his restless pained murmurs, and he was too tired to wake from the torture of his memory. Soon it will be all right again. Soon.

* * *

 

He is sleep heavy, and numb, his mind sluggishly refusing to work. For the best, he suspects. There was something horrid in his dreams, and he’d rather not remember exactly what it was. If he lies here, just a little longer in this cocoon of warmth, then he won’t even have to remember that there w _as_ a nightmare, and that sounds like such a wonderful thought.

Frankly, he doesn’t think he could move if he tried, legs and arms alike weighing like lead.

Even with his eyes closed, he can sense the candles guttering low. They flicker dimly through the darkness, though why they’re lit is a little baffling. He’s certain he quenched them before rolling in beside Chris-

Christine. The bed is empty aside from him, has been for some time if the cold sheets are anything to go by. Where is she? Oh, God. Did he scare her off?

His heart pounds painfully. Not that. Anything but that. Well, not anything, but still. _Where is she?_

His eyes snap open, blurry with sleep and needing to adjust to the dim light of the room. At the sight of the Christine-less bed, a rush of blood goes to his head, drowning out tiredness though he already knows she isn’t here. There’s something extra unnerving about _seeing_ her missing.

He sits up in bed, and is just about to step out when the footsteps in the other room catch his attention. Light, feminine, a familiar comforting tread. _Christine_.

They’re coming closer, she’s coming back to the room, and he tries to tell himself that he’s not relieved, that he wasn’t worried, and knows as he lies back down that it’s a lie, his heart settling at the realisation that she’s here and she’s safe, the exhaustion settling again in his bones.

She’s wearing one of his shirts. It hangs down to her knees, buttoned against the chill, and her feet are bare. She’s so lovely, framed in the door, wrapped up in his clothes, and something stirs deep inside his stomach, but he’s too tired for any of that now.

“Are you awake, Erik?” her voice is soft as she creeps back into the room, oddly soothing.

“Only just.” His voice is hoarse, low and gravelly. Was he screaming? That happens sometimes. Not this time, his throat isn’t sore and his jaw throbs as if it was clenched, his teeth aching. “Did I wake you?”

“No.” It’ a lie. She’s too quick with her answer; she’s been expecting the question. But he’s too tired to question her. His dear Christine just doesn’t want to worry him.

She slips back into their bed, taking his hand and bringing it to her lips. “Are you feeling better now?” She’s so soft in the candlelight, her skin tinged golden and edges blurred, hair still wild from sleep. Has she ever looked so beautiful? He doesn’t realise he’s staring until she quirks her lip, an eyebrow raised. What was the question again? Oh, yes.

“Much better.”

“That’s good.” She bows her head and kisses his forehead, lips so gentle as if she’s afraid of hurting him. How did he deserve this angel? Whatever did she see in him? “I love you.” The words are murmured against his skin, faint, almost imperceptible, and his heart swells fit to burst.

“I know.” He tugs her down from where she’s raised above him, propped on an elbow, and pulls her close, tucking her head beneath his chin. She’s so warm in his arms, wrapping herself around him as if there is nowhere else in the world she would rather be, and the thought brings tears to his eyes. “I love you too.”

“I know.” She kisses his neck, and pulls herself closer to him, their bodies pressed tight. “I know.”

And wrapped up in her arms, her in his, it’s so easy to drift back into sleep again, the easy knowledge of their love a shield from the world.


	2. 2

She cards his hair between her fingers, palm resting against his scalp. Her thumb strokes the thin strands - black and grey alike - over the side of her index finger, careful, gentle strokes, a rhythm for his easeful sleep. He snuffles, nuzzling deeper into her collarbone, forehead warm against her neck. The nightmares have gone away for tonight, leaving only exhaustion in their wake. And still she does not sleep, has no wish to sleep when he is sleeping on top of her like this. Sleep is such a waste when she can be treasuring the solid weight of him along her body, one hand in his hair, one on his back.

The sleeve of his white nightshirt has ridden up, revealing the scars etched deep into his right wrist, the hand resting limp against her left shoulder. Unbidden tears leap to her eyes. Such awful scars that could have killed him when the wounds were fresh, and they are not the only ones littering his poor abused body. How could anyone have done that to him? How could he have done it to himself?

(Perhaps...he wanted to die. Perhaps it would have been a mercy.)

No. She cannot think that. If he had died, then she would not have this, would not have this husband sleeping on top of her, this precious love which enfolds her. She is under no illusion that her husband is a good man. She knows he is a murderer, an extortionist, a one-time drug addict though he broke that addiction with a great deal of difficulty. She knows his crimes and the deaths at his hand likely number in the hundreds. She knows that there was at least some pleasure for him in wielding such power.

She knows his temper is furious and vicious. She's seen it, of course she knows, and it justly terrifies her though he's always exhibited such control for her sake. He tries, he does, but it bleeds out through the cracks that so many others have left in him. He hates to see her so frightened, so upset, and yet it happens but she cannot begrudge him, not when he tries so very hard.

And she loves him. She loves him so very much in spite of it all, with a tender gentleness that fills her heart and aches in his absence. For all he’s done, she cannot imagine a life without him.

She kisses the scars on his wrist tenderly, and holds his limp, heavy body tighter. She can keep him safe, now, if nothing else. That much she can certainly do, even if she cannot remove the torment in his fractured mind. She knows he cannot outlive her, not when his age and health are against them, but she _can_ keep him safe and love him for however long they have left.

She pulls the covers up closer around them, brushing her lips over his forehead and twining their fingers, his breaths soft and even again her skin. Truly, she needs nothing more than these delicate moments of peaceful closeness. Humming softly, she closes her eyes, and sighs into the night.


	3. 3

He comes to her half-asleep from his composing. She is in bed, reading by the lamplight, at such serene peace that it seems a crime to disturb her. He is too tired to fully undress, instead he strips down to his shirt and leaves his trousers on, slipping in beneath the covers beside her. Her body is warm, wrapped in her thin shift and he presses himself close, laying his cheek against her shoulder and pressing his lips to her collarbone.

"My Christine," he murmurs, kissing her gently, "my Christine." Her skin is silky with the heady fragrance of peach and tea rose - she is not long from her bath, and it has left her so very soft. "Oh, darling."

She does not look away from her book, but wraps her arm around his shoulders, dainty hand resting warm on his forearm. "Do you wish for me to read to you, my love?" Her voice is hushed and she inclines her head, pressing a kiss to his hair.

He had something else in mind other than her reading, he will admit, the fire simmering deep in his gut, but he is too tired for that. Such pleasures will simply have to wait. He nuzzles her still, craving to be closer. "That would be lovely."

"All right." She proceeds to read, the words washing over him so that he does not understand them, but he does not need to, not with her sweet voice folding him in its embrace and his eyes, so heavy, drifting closed...


	4. 4

It is Erik's shifting in his sleep that wakes her. She noticed his restlessness in the evening, in the tension of his shoulders and the tapping of his fingers, but it had settled by the time they were preparing for bed, and she paid no more mind to it as he kissed her and took her in his arms.

Now she is very definitely _out_ of his arms, and he is curled into a ball, his body trembling. It is not a nightmare, not quite. Those are different but it is enough that she feels a check of worry in her heart and she reaches over, and draws him to her.

He whimpers, slightly, his jaw tight as she wraps her arms around him, his fingers creeping across the sheets to find her, snagging in the buttons of her nightdress. With one hand she takes those fingers, and brings them to her lips, and kisses them. "I'm here, Erik," she whispers, "I'm here."

His eyelids flutter, but don't open, and she shifts closer to him, careful not to hurt him. He is delicate on nights like this, endlessly delicate, and it is her duty to protect him, and keep him safe from the monsters that haunt his mind, those others that would harm him if they were given the chance.

"I'm here," she breathes, her lips against the shell of his ear. "You're safe. I'm here, and I'm not leaving, I promise." It is a promise she has made a hundred nights, and time has not diminished its truth. So help her but there is nothing that could make her leave him, nothing that would let her leave him to this pain and suffering, and even as she speaks the words she can feel him settling, the tension bleeding from his body as he sinks in against her.

"Christine," he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. "Christine."

"Sssshhhh, darling. I'm here. Just rest."

He nods against her, not quite awake, and sighs, and she knows he will have no memory of this in the morning, and she knows that that is best. Tonight exists for itself, and she will protect him, and tomorrow is a whole new day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Originally posted to Tumblr for an Anon who requested something inspired by the song 'July' from BOY. I thought it fit well here, so it's now an additional fourth chapter!


End file.
